Adaptations
by Malok
Summary: Altair Ibn-La'Ahad has awoken in the apartment of Mark Kramer, a college student, in the year 2012. How does he cope with this sudden change? Why has it happened? Can he get back to his own time? Will he want to?  Rated M because I like freedom.
1. Chapter 1

Mark fumbled with his keys, unlocking the door to his apartment. He carefully shouldered in, holding a bag of groceries in one arm. Closing the door with his foot, he walked over to the kitchen, setting the bag down on the marble counter and tossing his keys towards the small wicker basket next to the door. As always, he missed. Sighing, he walked over and picked up the red carabiner and placed it where it was meant to be.

He unpacked his groceries, putting aside a pineapple yogurt. Grabbing the yogurt, he walked over to the couch, kicking off his Vans and putting his black-socked feet up on the glass coffee table. Grabbing the remote, he lazily flipped through channels while eating his yogurt. Nothing that interested him was on, so after he finished his food, he threw away the container, grabbed his shoes, and walked down the hall to his room.

He opened the door and jumped. A man was laying on his bed. The man was wearing white robes, contrasting greatly with the black sheets on the bed. The man had knives. Lots of knives. Thankfully, the man also appeared to be sleeping.

Both fear and excitement coursed through Mark's veins. _This could either be one of the luckiest days of my life, or the last_, he thought.

Slowly setting his shoes down, Mark crept over to the bed, inspecting the man. He was tall and fit, appearing to be of Middle Eastern descent, and his white robes were quite dirty. He had a slightly curved sword buckled on his hip, a sinister dagger strapped to his back, and ten or fifteen small knives affixed to various parts of his body. A hood obscured most of his face, but it looked as if he had not shaved in a few days.

Taking a deep breath, Mark prodded the man. He did not move. Mark tried again, poking a little harder this time.

The man burst into action, and within two seconds, Mark was pinned to the wall, a blade at his neck.

Mark screamed. He had not noticed this weapon during his first inspection. It was a knife that had been hidden along the man's left wrist. Some mechanism had allowed it to be almost shot out, instantly at Mark's throat. To Mark's horror, he also saw that the man was missing the ring finger on that hand, which would have been right where the blade was. Careless use or a sign of dedication?

"Who are you?" the man demanded, his voice frosty with anger.

"M-M-Mark-k K-K-K-Kramer-r-r. C-could you please put that knife away? Please!"

The man ignored the plea. "Where are we?" he asked. His voice was still cool and hard, but it might have relaxed just a little. Gone down from 'kill-you-as-soon-as-look-at-you' to 'leave-you-bleeding-in-an-alley-if-you-cross-me.'

"Westwood? Listen, who are you, why are you here?" Mark responded, once again in control of his voice.

"West... wood? Where is this Westwood? Did you abduct me from Masyaf?" Before Mark could answer, the man continued, "No. You would never have been able to touch me. There is no way you could have done this. Who do you work for? The Templars? Out with it... Mark!" The knife shot back into its mechanism with a flick of the man's wrist. He continued to keep a firm hold on Mark against the wall.

The name seemed alien on the hard man's lips, as if he were not used to making those sounds in conjunction with each other. Mark chose to let the obvious insult slide and stick to responding to the final query. "The Templars? They were around what, eight hundred years ago? Are you okay? Did you hit your head or something? Here, let me go and I'll get you something to drink. Would you mind discussing this in a civil manner... ?"

"Altaïr" the man responded. "Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad"

"Altaïr..." that was an interesting name, "okay. Well, Altaïr, how does that sound? Let me go and I'll go make us some hot tea. I won't try anything, you can watch me the whole time, if you want."

The man, Altaïr, paused to consider the offer for a moment and said, "Very well, tea would be quite welcome, I suppose." Altaïr let go of Mark and bowed slightly.

Now that they were both standing up straight, Mark noticed how much taller Altaïr was than him. Mark was an extremely average five foot nine inches, while Altaïr must have been six foot three or four at least. Mark headed towards the kitchen, Altaïr on his heels.


	2. Chapter 2

Altaïr followed close behind Mark as he made his way down the short hallway to the kitchen. Once he got there, he filled the kettle from the tap and put it on to boil. Altaïr stood in the opening between the counter and the wall, watching Mark's every move with great intent.

Trying not to be scared, Mark avoided looking at Altaïr as much as possible, setting to get out a couple of mugs and then proceeding to unnecessarily fumble with the box of tea. Finally getting out two mint tea bags, he put them in the mugs and leaned against the fridge, studying his shoes and wishing that the water would hurry up and boil. When it finally did, he poured the water into the cups, and looked up to see that Altaïr had not moved at all. It was really creepy.

Mark grabbed the cups before they were done steeping and walked to the living room, which was right next to the kitchen. In fact in this small apartment you could see into the living room through a cutout in the wall of the kitchen. Mark put the steaming mugs of steeping tea on the coffee table and gestured for Altaïr to take a seat. He stayed standing, now leaning on the wall on the other side of the opening into the kitchen, rather than on the counter side as he had been before.

Mark took a seat in the easy chair across from the couch. "Don't you want to sit down?" he asked.

"I would prefer to stand", Altaïr said.

"Suit yourself", Mark said, "so, why are you in my apartment?"

"I will be asking the questions here", Altaïr snapped. "Now, how did you get me here? Who kidnapped me?"

"Dude I have no fuckin' clue. I just came home from getting some groceries and when I went to my room to change, there you were." Mark explained, going on to jokingly say, "and then you tried to kill me."

Not acknowledging the joking tone of the last part, Altaïr said in his hard voice, "If I had tried to kill you, you would not be here right now. Furthermore, I find it rather difficult to believe that you simply found me on your bed."

"Well believe me or not, that's what happened. Are you going to have any of your tea?" Mark took a sip of his own, "see? I didn't poison it or anything. You watched me the whole time."

Altaïr slowly raised the mug, sniffing at it and then taking a small sip. Appearing to deem it acceptable and safe, he took another, larger sip. "I do not trust your explanation, Mark Kramer. Now tell me, who put you up to keeping me here? Is it the Templars?"

" Altaïr, why do you think I'm a Templar? They're from like, the Crusades, aren't they? The last one of those was almost eight hundred years ago."

"What are you talking about? Are you daft? The third is just winding down! Now answer my questions! Are you a Templar?"

"No! I am not a Templar. Happy? What can I do to prove to you that I am not your enemy? I knew I should have called the cops as soon as I saw you..."

"I suppose your word will have to be good enough for now. I do not trust you, Mark, but I will tolerate you. What are cops? Do you mean city gaurds?"

"City guards? Yeah sure, whatever. Tolerated? Tolerated? Man, you are in my house and you will TOLERATE me? I don't know what happened to give you these trust issues, but you could be a little more kind to the man whose house you've just invaded. Now if you are going to be like this, I think I would like you to leave." The last part of Mark's speech came out as a squeek, as Altaïr slowly stood up and unsheathed a mean looking dagger from its place on his back.

"I would like nothing better than to leave here, Mark. And I will, as soon as you answer a few more questions for me."

"Fine." Mark said unhappily. "Dick..." he muttered inaudibly under his breath. "So what do you want to know?"

"First off, where are we? And what is the fastest way back to Masyaf?" We are in Westwood. In Los Angeles. And I have no idea where Masyaf is so I can't help you there."

"I have never heard of these west woods or of Lost... Angeles. You will have to show me these on a map later. And Masyaf is in Syria, of course."  
>"Syria? Well to get back there, I'd say go down to LAX, get a flight to Syria and then find a bus or something to Masyaf. Of course they probably wouldn't let you on the plane with all those swords and shit."<p>

"I do not understand what you are talking about. A flight? Men cannot fly."

Mark stared at Altaïr quizically. Was he okay? He seemed so... Out of place. "This is true." Mark slowly began, "Men cannot fly. However planes can. You know what a plane is, right?"

"A... plane? What are you talking about, Mark Kramer?"

"Dude, you are so out of place. What happened?" Mark asked, then added, in a joking manner, "Are you from the Crusades or something?"

Altaïr seemed to get angry at that last part. "I am no Crusader! I seek to end the fighting!"

Mark stared, dumbfounded. He thought for a second. Could this man really be from that time period? Could he have somehow been transported through time and space to Mark's apartment? No. It disobeyed the laws of phyisics, not to mention all logic. Mark was far from a religious man. Things like this simply did not happen. But still... He seemed out of place. And some part of Mark just felt that this _had_ to be the truth. He would ask.

Carefully, Mark said, "Altaïr, what year is it?"  
>"1193" Altaïr snapped, "what are you, daft?"<p>

Mark's jaw actually dropped. "No. No. No no no." Mark muttered to himself, "This can't be. No fucking way!"

"What? Is something wrong?" Altaïr said, voice angry, though showing a small hint of concern now.

"Altaïr, I don't know any other way to tell you this, but it isn't 1193. Its 2012. I don't know how this happened, but please believe me, this is the truth."


	3. Chapter 3

Altaïr's eyes narrowed. "You lie!" he spat, standing up. "I knew you couldn't be trusted." He began to flex his left wrist, as if getting ready to use the blade attached to it.

Mark saw the motion and abruptly stood up, arms in front of him. "Wait!" he yelled. "Please. I do not lie. Please don't kill me. I can prove it to you. Please." By the time he finished the statement he was on the verge of tears, still shaken up from being almost killed earlier (not to mention finding a man from the twelfth century in his bed), and was not ready to be killed, almost killed, or even slightly killed for a long while.

Altaïr let his stance become slightly less hostile, but continued to glare at Mark. "And how exactly would you go about proving something like this? If what you say if true even. Which it of course isn't."

"Um..." Mark began. Shit. How _would_ he go about proving something like this? Hm... "Um... Hold on a sec. Let me think." Altaïr looked impatient. Would he wait long before deciding he was better off using that blade? How to prove to someone that it is eight hundred and some-odd years later than when they think it is... Hm... How could he do that? Oh this was useless! He was going to get murdered by some belligerent nut from the twelfth century and there was nothing he could do... Of course! That should work just fine...

"Okay. I got it. Follow me."  
>Altaïr looked quizzical, in adition to murderous, angry, and cold. However he did follow Mark as he led him back to where he had woken up.<p>

"What is the point of this?" Altaïr asked, impatient.

"This." Mark said, and flung open the black curtains, revealing the street below. Though he was not on a busy street, there were many cars parked on it, plus you could see a small part of Westwood Blvd., which was currently packed with cars.

Altaïr looked shocked. He stumbled to the window, trying to form words. "Wha.. What... What is this? What are _those_?"

"Those, Altaïr, are cars. They were invented around 1900. 112 years ago."

Altaïr knelt down, shaking. Mark decided to reward himself with a smug grin. He certainly had shown- Was Altaïr crying?

Mark's smug grin vanished, a look of concern replacing it instantly. Dammit. Why did he care? This guy had barged into his apartment, tried to kill him, and then been hostile the whole time. But he looked so pitiful there. The strong, armed, muscular, cool as ice, rather fetching man was crying. In shock of this drastic shift in where, and when, he was. Wait, what was that last feature Mark had listed about him? Rather fetching? Dammit! He was _not_ attracted to this man. He was mad at this man. Mad, mad, mad. He would not be hurt again so soon... Aww maybe he could comfort him just this once. Help him get used to this world, or back to his time, or something. Man, what _was_ Mark going to do? No time for that now...

Mark knelt down next to Altaïr and gently put an arm around his broad, muscular shoulders. Altaïr looked at him, tears still in his eyes: confused, depressed, in shock, and suddenly ashamed. He had probably never let anyone see even this much emotion in him...

"There, there." Mark said comfortingly. "Don't worry. Everything will be alright. We'll fix everything up. Don't you worry." Mark finished with what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

Altaïr was still shaking, though he appeared to be trying to hold his tears in, though not to much avail. He appeared to still be unable to form words.

"Don't be ashamed to cry. Especially not at a time like this. This must be shocking for you." Mark searched for what to do next, how to help Altaïr feel better. He had always been so good at comforting other friends that had been down. When someone's boyfriend or girlfriend had left them, when someone's relative had died, Mark had always known what to do. But for the current situation he hadn't the slightest idea what to do. So Mark just led Altaïr to the bed, and kept his arm around him, gently patting him every now and then as Altaïr let his shock out.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I am SO sorry to any of you who have actually been following this. I apologize for taking so long to update this, and I also apologize in advance for this chapter not really doing too much. Don't worry, the rest of this section-ish-thing will come soon, hopefully tomorrow. I promise. Now that exams are done, I can focus on this stuff a lot more. **

Mark looked out the window, shocked to see the last rays of the setting sun reflecting off of windows. Altaïr had long since stopped crying, though he still hadn't said a word. Mark was pleased to note that Altaïr had not tried to get Mark to move his arm, actually scooting closer to him at one point. Maybe this meant that he wouldn't try to kill him anymore. Though ever since Altaïr had moved closer, the hilt of a throwing knife had been digging into Mark's side rather painfully. Thankfully it was the hilt, and not the tip.

Mark took his arm from Altaïr and got up. Altaïr turned his head up to look at Mark, all its former anger and hatred gone, it now seemed almost the face of a child. Innocent, and in need of protection. And Mark would protect this otherwordly protecter. Killer. Whatever he was with all those weapons.

"Here, I'm going to go make us some dinner, okay?" Mark said, continuing after Altaïr nodded, "Why don't you take a shower while I cook? A nice hot shower always helps calm me down. Don't worry, I won't try anything while you're in there." Mark gave Altaïr a reassuring smile, reaching for Altaïr's hand to show him to the bathroom.

Altaïr got up, silently following Mark to the shower. He was being awfully trusting of this man he had only just met (and gone on to show an uncharacteristic display of emotions in front of), but something about Mark just told Altaïr he could trust him. That there was no need to worry about him trying anything on Altaïr. After all, he hadn't struck while Altaïr was in that vulnerable, deplorable state he had been in for hours. Still, best to still be on his guard. At least a little.

They reached the bathroom quickly, it was just a few steps down the hall from the bedroom. The walls were a pale orange, lit by a dim yellow light. There was a mirror above the sink in the center of the room. On one side of the sink was a white porcelain toilet, and on the other was a shower. Butted up against the corner, two of the shower's walls were tiled, and the other two were glass, one of which was the door. There was a shelf in one of the tile walls on which were several bottles of cleansing products.

"Here, I'll be right back." Mark said, quickly walking down the hall to get Altaïr a fresh towel. He picked out a big, fluffy, pastel green towel, which he brought back to the bathroom and placed on the table next to the shower for Altaïr.

"Oh, sorry." Mark said, cheeks growing hot and turning away from Altaïr, who had already undressed?

"For what?" Altaïr said, genuinely curious.

"I didn't know you had already taken your clothes off." Mark explained, still looking away. "The towel is on the table there, I'll go get started on dinner now. I'll, uh, try to find you some clothes before you are done in here."

Mark quickly left the room, shutting the door behind him.

_That was odd_. Altaïr thought. _Why would he apologise for seeing me unclothed? In Masyaf, everyone bathed together. This time is very different..._

Altaïr stepped into the shower, fumbling with the knobs until the water was the perfect temperature. The hot water and the steam felt amazing, as if they were almost melting away these problems he suddenly faced. But they were still there. They could not be melted away completley.

How could it be 2012? He knew it to be true, some deep part of him knew that the year was 2012, and there was no possibility for any trickery to be at hand. But still... How could this have happened? What kind of sorcery could have led to this? Could it have had something to do with the Apple? Altaïr did not know. It was too deep and too difficult a question for him to ponder at that moment. But he would find out how this strange event had come to pass. And he would find out how to get back to his proper time. He was determined.

But 2012... His very believing of Mark's words went against his creed: _Nothing is true, everthing is permitted_. He was supposed to seek out his own knowledge; divine his own truths! Not believe some random man whom he had just met. He would do just that then. He would unequivocably prove that it was 2012. And once he had aquired that knowledge, he could begin searching for a way back to his proper time.

But now was not the time for that. Now was a time to relax in this wonderful shower.

Altaïr's stomach grumbled. When had he gotten so hungry? He supposed it _had_ been close to a millenium since he had last had a meal. Good thing that Mark was cooking.

The door's hinges emitted a barely audible creak as the door slowly opened. Altaïr's head shot around. Nothing but Mark's hand was visible, holding what appeared to be a pile of black cloth. The hand set those down on top of the towel Mark had left for Altaïr on the table besude the shower and then retreated, closing the door on its way out.

Altaïr quickly finished washing and shut off the shower. The towel Mark had given him was very soft and did an excellent job of drying the water from Altaïr's tan, muscular body. Once he was reasonably dry, Altaïr went over to inspect the pile of black cloth. It turned out to be a black tunic of an odd cut, similar to the type that Mark had on, only looser, and a light and loose pair of black pants. Tucked between them had been a pair of red underclothes. The underclothes were surprisingly tight, perfectly hugging Altaïr's thighs and cradling his more delicate parts in a rather comfortable manner. He slipped the clothes on and picked up the carefully folded pile of the dirty robes he had been wearing for a large part of his assassin career. On top of the folded robes Altaïr had carefully placed his armour and all of his weapons. The pile of weapons easily rivaled the size of the folded robe.

Altaïr eyed the pile of weapons. It was not like him to go anywhere unarmed. Hell, he had been armed the first time he had lain with a woman. Altaïr decided upon his hidden blade, and fastened the vambrace that contained it around his left wrist. Grabbing the pile of weapons and robes, he pushed open the door and walked into the hall.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I am SO sorry for taking so long (again) to get a chapter up. I know I promised that it would be a LOT sooner, and I thank all of you for hanging in there. I'm not the best with deadlines. I will bu uploading more chapters when I can. That is all I can really give you right now. It shouldn't be _excruciatingly_ long in between though, so don't worry. Reviews are always appreciated, suggestions are welcome. Enjoy :)**

Altaïr was greeted by tantalizing aromas wafting down the hall from the kitchen. His bundle of killing and covering still in his arms, he crept down the hall and say Mark, wearing a dark blue unadorned apron over his clothes, puttering about the apartment's small kitchen and moving as if to music, though Altaïr heard no sound but for that of the cooking. There were several pans on the stove, each sizzling with a different item. A light was eminating from the oven, suggesting that something cooked in there as well.

Altaïr stopped at the mouth of the hall, still holding his bundle. It took several seconds for Mark to realize he was there. Mark reached up and pulled the ends of two white strings out of his ears and pulled the other end of the string out of his pocket, dropping it on the countertop. That was odd. Why would he put strings in his ears?

" Altaïr!" Mark said, and ran over. "Here, let me get that for you." He tried to grab the bundle from Altaïr's arms, but the tall man would not have it.

"Tell me where I may put these. I will not let another touch them."

"Uhh okay..." Mark looked quizically up at Altaïr. "How about over there?" Mark pointed to the corner of the living room, behind the couch. "Will that do?"

In response, Altaïr walked over and carefully refolded his robe and layed out the weapons atop it in the indicated place. Altaïr walked back over and said to Mark, "Thank you for letting me bathe here and giving me clean clothing to use."

"Oh, its no problem, Altaïr. I'm happy to help." Mark smiled. "Dinner will be ready soon, so I hope you are hungry."

"Well, I certainly am. After all, it has been several hundred years since my last meal, has it not?" Altaïr grinned. Mark laughed at the joke and went back to the kitchen to tend to the cuisine.

Mark told Altaïr he could take a seat at the dining room table, which was opposite the living room, lying on the other side of the kitchen. Altaïr took a seat in one of the high backed wooden chairs and sat silently at the table, unsure of what to do. He folded his hands and resigned to wait for dinner to be ready.

Mark shortly asked Altaïr if he would like a glass of wine, which Altaïr accepted. Mark pulled the cork out of a green glass bottle with a satisfying pop and poured a measured amount of the burgundy nectar into a glass, which he brought over to Altaïr. Altaïr sipped at the wine as Mark put the finishing touches on their meal.

A few minutes later, all preparation was complete, and Mark brought several dishes out to the table. One had a chicken on it, sliced potatoes ringing it with rosemary across the top. Another had asparagus and a final one had part of a sliced baguette. Without any ceremony more than simple courtesy, the two began to eat.

They ate in silence, slowly. Mark would occasionaly mumble something in an attempt to start a conversation, but Altaïr would simply ignore it. When they were done, Mark cleared the table and washed their dishes. He recorked the wine and set it on the counter, to be enjoyed later.

Altaïr patiently sat at the table still, waiting for... Something. Eventually Mark offered Altaïr coffee, which he had not heard of, and upon Mark's assurances that it was good, consented to have some.

As Mark was making the coffee, he heard Altaïr call out, "I asked you to show me a map earlier. Would you mind doing that now?"

"Shit!" Mark cursed. He had spilled hot water on himself as he was pouring it into the drip filter full of coffee grounds. "Uhh. Yeah, sure Altaïr. Here, let me finish making this stuff real quick and I'll go grab a map."

Mark poured the rest of the water into the filter and left as is dripped through the coffee and into the carafe. Walking into the living room, he grabbed a large blue book with a gold ribbon marking some page or another. The National Geographic atlas.

As Mark walked by the kitchen, he noticed that the coffee was done filtering through. He tried to stuff the atlas under one arm and grab the carafe, which he would have to cap first, along with two mugs, but such a feat of balance was beyond him and his two arms. "Altaïr, could you give me a hand with this?" he called. Altaïr hurried over and relieved Mark of the Atlas which, at Mark's gesturing, he brought back to the table as Mark grabbed the carafe and two mugs and brought those along to the table as well.

After pouring two mugs of steaming black coffee, it occurred to him that Altaïr might not like the coffee black the way Mark did. "Altaïr, do you want cream or sugar for your coffee?" Mark asked.

"Why? Do you normally have your coffee with cream and sugar in it?"

"Me? No. I like it black. Plain. They call coffee with nothing in it black. But a lot of people add adulterants to their coffee. They prefer it that way. Personally, I can't stand it any way but black."  
>"I will have it black as well then, Mark. Thank you for preparing it, along with dinner."<p>

"Oh, it was nothing." Mark blushed a little bit. Damn it, why did that make him blush at all? Mark cleared his throat. "So, the map." He opened the atlas to a picture of a world map.

Mark looked for Syria and pointed at the map. "This is Syria. Where you are from. Masyaf is in there somewhere." He moved his finger over, through the mediterranian sea, across the Atlantic, through the US and all the way to southern California. He pointed at Los Angeles, which unlike Masyaf was marked on the world map. "This is where we are. This is where I am from. Its about..." Mark made an estimate using the map's key and his fingers, "about 7500 miles away. That's really far."

Altaïr remained silent. His faced looked sterner than it had at dinner, but still calm, thankfully. "Any you said you know a way for me to get back there? Something about a layax?"

"A layax? Oh! LAX. Yeah. You can get back there. But Altaïr, I really don't think that would do you much good. Syria is in a state of political upheaval right now. Its not really a place anyone wants to be. Besides, that might make you spacially closer, but you would still be hundreds of years away. Maybe trying to find a way to get you back to your time would be more sensible. But not now. Not soon. You need to get used to this world first, because I don't know how long it could take us to get you back there."

"Political upheaval? I was there in a Crusade, Mark! I think I can handle simple 'political upheaval'!" Altaïr had gotten a bit angry. With the last bit of the sentence, he extended his hidden blade and quickly retracted it, for effect.

Quelling the fear that rose within him whenever this more than capable killer brandished a blade, Mark calmly and reassuringly smiled and said, "Altaïr, I'm sure you are a great fighter. But these people have hundreds of years of technology on their side. People don't use swords and knives anymore. They use guns and bombs. People there are getting killed in droves by people with guns. Guns can kill people from very far away with almost no effort on the part of the killer. You'd get picked off in seconds." Mark's smile turned to a look of deep concern as he finished the sentence.

"There is much you still need to explain to me, Mark Kramer." Altaïr said.

Mark nodded. "Yes. There is. Shall we get started?" Mark took a seat across the table from Altaïr, and began answering questions.


End file.
